


Minimal

by Teigh



Series: Pedestrian Wolves [3]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-05
Updated: 2008-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:27:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his thoughts, herd remains a mix of verb and noun, a nomadic designation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minimal

**Author's Note:**

> Third of five character studies for the Pedestrian Wolves 'Verse.

Being on the road as part of a band means cages become routine. That’s not what Bob expected, when he relaxed his guard and agreed to set himself at the back, guarding and being part of this //pack// group. He’s spent so long following the herds, walking freely through the clustered bands, looping around the edges to corral stragglers.

 _He does not think of these people as prey. That’s a breach of Fianin etiquette so immense it gives him cold sweats just thinking of it. But there is no other translation for the vast, ambling mob, propelled forward by music, migrating from venue to venue that fits as well as ‘herd’. In his thoughts, herd remains a mix of verb and noun, a nomadic designation._

 _Bob hates it when people call ‘the general public’ sheep. It makes his skin crawl._

But now, he’s connected [He can’t call it shackled. He won’t.], finds himself at the center of the migratory patterns. Moving from interview room to concert hall to bus to hotel room and back, in endless loops, reminded him of habitrails. His world, originally bound by road alone, has grown walls, corners, square dimensions. There are times –generally when a camera is pointed his way and he has no safe retreat – that Bob feels like he made a mistake.

Then Frank laughs and leaps, or Bob almost loses an eye because Gerard gestures with too much earnestness. Bob feels the four lives, wrapped around his own and given into his care, and remembers that connection is, in its own way, as vast as middle America.

 

But even in that internal landscape, there are walls.

Out of the others, only Ray knows the truth. Bob had seen understanding glint, moon-bright, in Ray’s eyes when they first met, and so he listened to his gut, relaxing his guard when he’d normally held silence close. That’s become his rock, the place Bob cracks his fears open. It’s a relief, easing the greater tour strain. Even with just a partial understanding of the tides in him, Ray watches and aids.

Bob has slipped into old practices, walking the boundaries of his responsibilities. He slides through shadows at site’s edge, praying for a resemblance to a stray dog when accidentally spotted. His pack pulses within his every step.

Being without for so long, the presence of ties are that much more powerful. He wishes there was someone he could talk to about this urgent internal press, the second heartbeat in him with its multi-tongued harmony. He knows his parents won’t –can’t- understand. They lived too long, independent of their packs and are too proud of their isolation. There have been many nights, with the road rumbling under him and the steady sleeping breath of his band mates around him, that Bob has held his phone, a thumb on the send button and Chicago’s area code on the screen. He knows if anyone could understand, it would be Trohman. But he never pushes.

In all of this, Ray remains his tether. Bob wonders, sometimes, why the other man’s agitation and worry is so clear to him. Mostly though he’s just grateful, as he walks along pavement’s edge, stars watching. He can’t stop walking the rounds – padding furred around the periphery, looking for threats. He doesn’t mind the fluctuating territory since the erratic centered pulse of his home, his pack, sits at the center of it all.

Bob knows he’s making due –there are too many secrets muddying the air between them all – but at the core, he’s a pragmatist. Change is rushing close, waxing bright, and he’s willing to wait for it. For a little while longer at least.


End file.
